THE SENSE OF GUILT
by TheWritingKoala
Summary: For my own prompt : "Mycroft, feeling entirely responsible for what happened, just stops eating." SPOILER SEASON 2. Holmecest. Sherlock/Mycroft - John/lestrade.


THE SENSE OF GUILT  
>-o-<p>

Food tasted like ashes - His brother's ashes ?

Mycroft raised his eyes toward Athenaïs – and she preferred Anthea, but she had to change every other months - and shook his head. She sighed but didn't say a word as she took the tray meal with her. She walked across the large study and was about to get out when she stopped and turned around, staring at her employer.

"Mister Holmes, forgive me but you really have to eat more, it has been over three months already. You…"

"Thank you Athenaïs, for your concern, but I am an adult and can take care of myself."

"But – "

"You can leave now."

She held her breath for five seconds before sighing again. She couldn't do it alone - not anymore. She needed help.

oo- - -o- o-o o-

John Watson had met a lot of widows – because he was a doctor, because he was in the Army, because he was a son who had lost his mother and had seen his father drink his sorrow into every alcoholic's substances. John Watson knew what a widow or a widower looked like.

Then, why – why? – did he felt a thousand times worse than what all these people had seemed to be feeling?

Sherlock was not – John closed his eyes and again, his throat just seemed to close up and he couldn't think about anything regarding Sherl –

He was his best friend. He was his mad genius of a best friend. He was the only reason his brain hadn't end up decorating his first shabby flat after he came back for Afghanistan.

"Mmh."

"I know it's hard, John. But you have to tell me how you are feeling. Not even about Sherlock per se, but maybe about what you have been doing since the funeral, or if your feelings have changed…I need to know, and you need to tell me, what it is you are feeling because I can't help you if you let me walk blind beside you."

John kept his eyes close some more. "What if I don't want to speak with you about hi – it?"

"You're here John. I didn't make you come - you came alone, on your own free will."

A hard, hoarse, sad – so so sad – laugh slipped through his lips and he ran a hand over his face.

"No. Actually no." He said as he raised his head with a condescending smile. "No, I didn't came on my own free will, I came because our – my – landlady thought it would be best for me to come and try to – " He breathed heavily and clenched his teeth. "To get better. And it won't work. I have to go." He then said, before standing up.

"John."

"I am sorry Ella, but I can't – I don't believe you can help me. He was - - No, I can't." And before she could say anything more, John leaved the room.

He certainly wasn't prepared to see a black car waiting for him at the building entrance and he certainly wouldn't get in the car – because he wasn't sure even after four months that he could face Mycroft without punching him – or worse ; killing him, eviscerating him, making him suffer, and screaming - - 'why did you let him die? Why did you let him deal with it alone? Why did you think I could help? I am just me, and look where we are now – and screaming some more.

But even as he shook his head and crossed the street, the black car remained behind him, following him slowly, patiently.

Finally, John stopped and turned around. He got near the window and taped against it.

"I don't want to talk to Mycroft, Miss not-Anthea, so tell him thank you for the invitation, or whatever you want, but please, leave me alone." He hissed as politely as he could.

But then, Not-Anthea ("I am Athenaïs now") held out an I-pad picturing some photographs. He sighed and took it, looking at it with evident annoyance.

Except that he looked almost right up at the woman when he saw of whom the pictures were.

"Why is…" And God yes it was Mycroft, but he looked like a ghost – a thin, sick, ghost of himself.

"He's lost 36 pounds since Sherlock's death and there is nothing I haven't tried to make him eat, but he just doesn't want to – or I think he can't – I know you resent him for his mistake regarding Moriarty but god, please, please, help him."

She stared at him with severity and went on.

"- If you ever cared for Sherlock, and yes, of course I know you did, then please, save his brother. I know they always seemed to be insensitive about everything, but please, you know it was all just bullshit (she didn't even blush at her words – she did seem exhausted), if he keep punishing himself like that, he'll die. Please, John."

And John couldn't very well say no, could he? Because yes, he knew Sherlock well and he had never been fooled by the apparent hatred the late private detective felt toward his brother. Yes, he despised him, maybe, but Mycroft was above all Sherlock's brother.

"Ok. But we'll need to stop by DI Lestrade's flat first." Because, no, he couldn't do it alone, even if he wanted to – he was still grieving (yelling, screaming, crying 'please, don't be dead') after all.

"Thank you." Athenaïs said as he got into the car.

-o-

Greg Lestrade was not depressed.

No – Why would he? He had just known Sherlock for five years, had been insulted, criticized, belittled and yelled at by the world only consulting detective. So, why, pray tell, should he feel depressed about him killing himself and –

Yeh, of course he was lying to himself, thank you very much.

Lestrade sighed heavily and put his glass back down on the table. Sherlock was dead, and it certainly was partly his fault, because he had let Donovan and Anderson convince him, make him doubt for maybe three seconds.

Three seconds which had already been too much, and now Sherlock was gone and buried and – and he had killed himself for god sake! How could he have done that? He didn't care about what people thought – it didn't make any sense.

And as a policeman – as a former policeman, he thought drinking a mouthful of scotch – as a former policeman with twenty years of experience; he fucking knew when something was off.

The doorbell shook him out of his musing and he stood up, walking slowly toward the door. And if it was Donovan apologizing again, he swore he would punch her, woman or not, she knew how to defend herself.

It wasn't Donovan, it was John – and Lestrade would have preferred a thousand times more to be faced by his former colleague.

"Hello Greg." John said, hands hidden in his jacket pocket – oh, and Lestrade could easily read there a wick attempt from John to try and restrain himself from jumping on Lestrade and beating the crap out of him.

Well, maybe Greg was seeing violence everywhere now – maybe he wanted so badly for someone to beat him, punch him, and make him pay for the loss of Sherlock's amazing and extraordinary life, that he was seeing violence everywhere.

He would love for John to be the one beating him.

"John." He said, his voice a little bit broken at the edge.

John breathed deeply and managed to smile at the elephant in the room. "I need you."

The former DI stared wide-eyed at John before nodding eagerly. "Everything you need John, I – " But he couldn't say it – he couldn't say 'I am sorry' because then it would lead to Sherlock and he was certain that neither of them was willing to talk about Sherlock.

He was not – he could not – not without crying and he hadn't cried in years and – just no.

John smiled again – and maybe it was more open than the first very forced one.

"I am sorry for your job, Lestrade."

Lestrade shook his head and chocked a little on his next words.  
>"It was not – I don't care, John. It's not – "<p>

"I know." John said and he took a step forward and placed one of his hands on Greg's shoulder.

"I am beginning to understand that feeling guilty about what happened might be harder than just living with – " he closed his eyes and swallowed and it had been four months, for god sake, when would it start hurting less? – " - with his death."

Lestrade nodded and the corner of his mouth just fell and he couldn't – "John, I am so sorry –I never should have doubted, I knew he was not a fraud, I knew it – but it was – I had to – just –" And he was fucking sobbing in front of John Watson and how dare he?

"Please, I am sorry, John." He said again and looked at John and a tiny whimper escaped his mouth when he saw that John's eyes were filled with tears.

But then John's mouth formed a little smile and then – then he was laughing.

"Oh god, Greg, what would he think if he could see us?" He said, laughing and crying and Greg moved forward and put his arms around the crying, laughing, depressed soldier and hugged him.

And just like that John wasn't so much laughing anymore but sobbing into Lestrade's neck and maybe, it was what therapy was about – forgiving, and confronting your fears and all that crap.

When John stopped crying – and when Greg did as well – they sat close on the coach.

"So what can I help you with?" Lestrade asked, his voice row from crying.

"Well, you know what it is like to feel guilty about what happened, right? And you've been dealing with situations like this one before – " Lestrade nodded and frowned, not understanding what John was saying.

"There is another person who has all the right to feel very guilty Greg, and he is not dealing fine with it at all."

When they leaved Lestrade's flat, Athenaïs was back from Harry's where she had collected John's belongings.

She was also clenching her hands and looking positively frantic.

"He fainted." She told them as soon as they were in earing distance.

John's blood left his head in an instant and he hurried toward the car. "Fuck, did you take him to the hospital?" He asked. Athenaïs shook her head and watched the driver open the boot and place Lestrade's bag in it.

"The doctor with him said it was unnecessary. It's a sugar deficiency and he should be ok for now. But it's the first warning of what is to come." She explained quickly.

"Does he know you have contacted us?" Lestrade asked as they entered the car.

"No. No, he wouldn't have let me." She answered, and her voice wavered a little. "We're going to Mister Holmes Manor."

"Wasn't it a castle?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "That would be the Holmes estate, but his parent lives there and it wouldn't be wise to –mmh - too much memories."

Lestrade and John nodded but frowned when Athenaïs seemed to be hesitating about something else, something apparently harder to say.

"Anthea." John asked – and he didn't care if it wasn't her name for the day, he liked it better – he was used to it.

"You have to know something about Sherlock and Mycroft." She said, and she seemed less professional now – more open, more concerned. And she certainly seemed more worried all of a sudden. "You have to know about them or you won't be able to help Mycroft – to understand."

Lestrade and John exchanged a worried glance before turning their eyes back on Anthea.

She held out the I-pad to them and Lestrade took it.

It was a picture of a young version of Mycroft and Sherlock – and god, John wasn't sure he wanted to see that because Sherlock, his best friend, was dead and – "Yes, and?" He said. But Anthea didn't answer so John just kept looking at the picture.

Mycroft must have been 16 or 17, and Sherlock was a little boy of nine or ten, with a mop of black hair and serious grey-blue eyes. But they were both smiling at the camera, Mycroft with an arm around Sherlock's shoulder. The eldest brother was thinner than what he had been like before Sherlock's death – and he had dark rings under his eyes.

Still he was smiling brightly.  
>"So what?" Lestrade asked gently and they both looked up to see her chewing her bottom lip.<p>

"When they were younger, Sherlock and Mycroft were pretty much always together, or as much as they could be because at this time. (she pointed the picture) –"

"-Mycroft was at Eaton and Sherlock was staying with Mummy Holmes. He refused to go to any school. He had private tutors. But each time Mycroft was free to come home, he would, and he took care of Sherlock as best as he could.-"

"-He would find ways to interest him in various things and try to avoid for him to be bored. Sherlock was very lonely as a kid, he didn't talk for days when Mycroft wasn't there. He would be cold, and serious and a right brat with his tutors, but all that without uttering a single words. Then, as soon as Mycroft would be back, he wouldn't stop talking for hours, even at night.- "

"-They were raised to not let their emotions shows by their father – to not feel anything really -, but their Mother was always behind them, loving them, always showing it to them. That's why they can sometimes seem very concern about something, or on the contrary, very unconcerned and cold about something else. They grew up together, and - - "

(She sighed and closed her eyes, before smiling a little – and it was a sad broken smile) "-and they loved each other. They fell in love with each other because they shared the same brain and no one could understand them. They were two faces of the same coin and –"

"Wait – wait wait wait," Lestrade interrupted raising his hand, while John's mouth was hanging open, realization clear in his eyes.  
>"Oh my god," he said in a whisper. Then his face lost his surprise and fell. "Oh my god." He repeated, and his voice was full of tears now.<p>

"Are you saying that Mycroft and Sherlock were – " Lestrade's eyes were still wide open. "- that they were involved – as in, romantically involved?"

Athenaïs just nodded. "They were. It was complicated, and certainly not totally right, but they loved each other very much, believe me."

"When did it – begin." John asked, still in shock.

"Sherlock made his first advance when he was 15, but Mycroft was 22 and knew it wasn't right, so he refused at first, but even if he refused any intimate gesture, Sherlock has always been very clear on the fact that they were together at this time – because for Sherlock being together was just about being with Mycroft and talking, bickering, arguing and all that. In a way, they had always been together."

"They – ok, I know it's none of my business but – did they have – you know – sex?" Lestrade's voice faltered at the end and he blushed deeply.

"Yes, they did have sex. They were like a couple, you know, an extremely crazy couple, with separate living arrangement and an inclination to fight for everything but it was their dynamic, if you don't mind me saying." She explained, and she was smiling softly – and then she stopped smiling and her eyes were filled with sadness, as if she had just remembered why she was telling John and Greg what the true relationship between her employer and his brother was.

"How do you know all that?"

"My mother worked at the Holmes estate, I kind of grew up with them. I've always known."

"Mycroft insinuated at Buckingham when we were interviewed for the case with Irene Adler that Sherlock was a virgin…I thought he was asexual." John muttered. And it was kind of soothing, in a way, to talk about this souvenir with other people who had known Sherlock.

"That's Mycroft for you, dear. And I'm sure Sherlock wasn't being an angel." – No, he had just mock his brother and called him 'the queen'. "But to answer your question, Sherlock is not asexual, I think he is more Mycroft-sexual than anything but…"

"Aaaand, I think we're done talking about sexuality and Sherlock and Mycroft." Interrupted Lestrade and John looked grateful. Athenaïs just smiled slyly and nodded.

The following silence reminded them of the reason they were having this conversation and John sighed, his head falling into his hands.

"Why were they fighting then? They hadn't talked to each other in weeks before it happened, and Mycroft asked me to look after Sherlock because they were fighting."

"Mycroft was jealous." Athenaïs answered quickly.

"Jealous of what?" John answered and she stared at him intently.

"Me? Mycroft was jealous of me?"

"Sherlock was talking about you with words he had never used to talk about anyone. Mycroft thought he might just be falling in love with you, so he - - he told Sherlock that it would be easier if they just stop seeing each other, that way Sherlock would be more at ease to discover his feelings toward John."

"Sherlock wasn't – "

"No, he wasn't. Certainly not. He told Mycroft that, he fussed, and yelled and begged – yes he begged – but Mycroft wouldn't hear any of it. I think Mycroft thought it would be best for Sherlock if he was with someone who was not his brother. And I think their father knew about you, John, and pressured Mycroft into taking the 'right' decision."

"Oooh wait, their parents knew?"

"Yes, yes they did. Until you arrived, John, Mister Holmes hadn't talked to his sons in 10 years. And the only reason he began talking to Mycroft again was to tell him to encourage Sherlock to love you."

"But Sherlock didn't love me. He liked me, maybe, I was his friend, his best friend but he didn't – he never – no, he didn't love me like that."

"I know, John." Athenaïs said sadly. "I know, and Sherlock knew as well, he knew why Mycroft was doing it. He was just letting Mycroft realize it on his own, waiting for him." She continued and she pinched her lips, trying visibly not to cry.

A new silence filled the car and Lestrade sighed. "As hard and weird it is to admit it, I can't see any better person to take care of Sherlock than his own brother, who had the privilege, or the curse, to share his gigantic brain."

"So you'll help him?" Athenaïs asked, looking relieved.

"You thought we wouldn't help knowing it?" Lestrade exclaimed. "I wasn't sure. It's not something very common."

"Yes, no, it's not. But it's Sherlock and Mycroft. I think boring and normal has never been their thing, right? – there's just something I don't – Why the drugs? Sherlock was on drugs when I met him, he overdosed on me." Lestrade said, frowning.

Athenaïs paled a little bit. "Mister Holmes, the father, sent Mycroft working in the Saoudi Arabia for 2 years when Sherlock was 22. If Mycroft is more or less the British Government, Broderick Holmes could rule the world."

John looked at her before a tiny, non-believing smile appeared on his face. "We're not in some kind of romance novel, are we? Because, before I met the Holmes, I thought that those kind of things were just books material…Ruling the world, like, literally?"

"Mister Holmes has business with 138 countries as of today – With the countries themselves, and with the most powerful companies in each one of them. He is called 'THE WHISPERER" in most of them. He gives advices. He is as clever as Mycroft and Sherlock together. He is frightening, really. And so, when Mycroft was sent to Saudi Arabia, Sherlock was left with nothing else than a little allowance from their mother.-"

John gritted his teeth and Lestrade growled at that.

"-But he missed Mycroft – it's like, they are co-dependent, they can fight, and yell, and insult each other, but they can't stay a month without seeing each other at least once. Sherlock tried the drugs, thinking he could handle it, thinking it would make the time goes faster.-"

"- But he was – I don't know, I think he just gave up, because he believed that Mycroft wouldn't be coming back, because their father had the power to not let him come back. When you found him, detective inspector, and when I called Mycroft to tell him what happened, he stopped everything and came back. That's when they stopped having any contact with their father."

She breathed deeply and went on.

"They both have – destructive personalities. If something stops their mind, or weakens it, they just can't – I don't know how to explain it. Mycroft – the situation he is in – it's not surprising. He have always had problem with food. My Mom thought it was because of the education he received, cold by his father, loving by his mother –"

"- Sherlock found out that it was more because he had no choice, he had to be the perfect son, he wanted his father to be proud, and he wanted, needed him to just focus on him, and not on Sherlock because he knew he could handle it, but that Sherlock wouldn't – Sherlock was too unique as a child, and their father wouldn't have understood him, he wouldn't have had the patience.-"

"- So Mycroft listened, and agreed to everything his father asked of him, and he had no control about it, he hadn't any choice but to use his brain for the purpose his father wanted him to. So he began trying to find control over other things in his life, and he chooses food.-"

"-The picture I showed you ; he was 16, he had lost 15 pounds in 3 weeks, he was being sent to Harvard – when all he wanted was to go to Oxford. It's not – they weren't really happy children, you know." Athenaïs said, and a tear ran on her cheek. "But god, they were everything for each other."

A silence again, and John had trouble breathing because – because he could picture it, picture them, he could – of course, he had already seen the way they would meet more often than not, even when all they were doing during their meeting was insulting each other.

Lestrade hand gripped his forearm and he nodded. "Well, I promise you we'll try our best to help him, Anthea." He said, finally, and his voice was hoarse and tired.

John felt guilty now, to have resented Mycroft so much – he felt guilty, actually, because it was because of him that they had stopped talking and that –

"Don't go there John." Greg muttered at his side. John looked up at him and frowned. "Yeah, sorry."

The DI stared at him seriously before nodding and turning his head toward Athenaïs when her phone rang.

"Hello Robin, is he all right?"

She paled and clenched her phone. "What? What is he…" she growled – growled – "Never mind. We're five minutes away. Yes, don't let him see mister Holmes." She ran a hand through her hair and gritted her teeth. "I don't care. Putt me through to him."

She waited a little bit and Lestrade and John heard a masculine voice in the phone. "No, Lord Holmes, you have no right to be there, and no right to see your son. It's his propriety, so I demand you to go."

" – Then wait for us, but you're not seeing him now."

" – right." And she hung up.

"Mister Holmes is at the estate, and he demand to see his son."

-o-

When they finally reached the estate, the butler and the housekeeper were waiting anxiously in front of the large wood door. Not-Anthea almost ran over them, followed quickly by John and Lestrade.

"Tell me he didn't see him."

"No, Sevastian is staying in front of mister Holmes rooms."

"Thank you Robin." She sighed. She turned toward the two other men and stared at them. "You're ready. Mister Holmes is a piece of work; he is going to threaten everything you have."

"Well, good I've already lost my job and my wife left me and took our kids with her, then."

"I don't have anything to lose anymore, Anthea." John added. They exchanged nervous smiles and got in the Manor. Athenaïs led the way through a lot of corridors and stairs, before entering a large hall.

At the other end stood a footman, staring hardly at a big man with grey hairs and a walking stick. The man heard them and turned around, and John and Lestrade understood right away why everyone seemed to fear the man – even his own sons.

He had Sherlock's eyes, but where Sherlock's had been full of knowledge and interest and boredom, Broderick Holmes's eyes held nothing, just coldness, emptiness. He was frowning and his face was - - frightening.

And John had met a lot of stern men in the Army, and none of them had ever provoked such an uneasy feeling in him.

"Ah, Isabel." The man said. Anthea's shoulder straightened and John had no doubt that the man had just revealed her real name.

"Mister Holmes, why don't you come downstairs in the meeting room, so we could talk calmly about the situation."

"I don't need to speak calmly about anything, Isabel, I want to see my son. He is sick, and I, as his father, have the right to see him, and express my concern to him." Broderick Holmes said, his voice hard, but weak, almost like a whisper.

Oh, how John didn't envy Mycroft and Sherlock as children – this man, whispering their names in the big castle they certainly lived in.

"No." Anthea answered. And she didn't seem scared. She seemed strong, and determined.

"Always so stubborn, my dear." He said. And he came toward her. Without hesitation, John and Greg took three steps forward and stood at Anthea's side. The man stopped and looked at them.

"Ah, Greg Lestrade and John Watson –" He extended his hands toward John who shook it with obvious reluctance. "I am very sorry for Sherlock, Mister Watson." Broderick Holmes said, and John was stuck by the man's insensitiveness.

"Certainly you can convince our dear Isabel to let me see my son." He said, and yes, he could very well see the threat. It was written all over the man's face.

"I don't think so sir. But I am sure that as soon as Mycroft is better, he'll let you know that you're welcome to see him, but for now, I think you should let him rest and recover."

The man's features hardened and he took a step back, frowning at them. "I demand to see my son right now, and you certainly have no right to forbid me to do so." He said,

"We do actually. So please, either you leave on your own or we'll make you – sir." Lestrade said, his voice showing no sign of fear.

Broderick Holmes glared at them and straightened. "Very well, I'll be waiting for Mycroft's call in the following month, if he doesn't call me, I'll have no other choice than to ask the judge to let me become the legal guardian of my son while he is incapable to take care of himself alone. There is a very successful private clinic not far from our estate which would be glad to take care of Mycroft in all the privacy he need and -"

"Oh, come on, you just want to hide your grieving son." Isabel interrupted. And she was scowling and appeared ready to punch Mycroft's father.

"Peu importe, Isabel. Just make sure he calls me. A month, that's all you get." The man said, and without a glance at John and Greg, he left the hall.

-o-  
>Mycroft knew his father was behind his room's door. He could hear him – he could almost sense him as well, his shadow looming over his poor footman.<p>

He hoped Sevastian would be able to stand against his father because he was far too weak right now to face THE MONSTER – that's what Sherlock as a child would call him. 'Mycroft', he would mutter in his ear in the middle of the night – 'Mycroft, may I sleep with you, I don't want the monster to find me in the morning.' Monsters didn't come at night, with Sherlock, they did in the morning and they had his eyes and hair.

And what he wouldn't give to have this little boy again. At least, little as he was when he was young, nothing seemed be able to injure Sherlock. He was the safest child of the whole world. Mycroft took care of that.

Growing up, Sherlock had become full of passion and Mycroft had failed numerous times at keeping him safe.

And at the end he had killed him.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying not to allow the sobs to get through his lips.  
>Mycroft didn't want to see his father – he would gloat, admonished him for his behavior, guilt him (and god, he didn't need more of that) and never once express any kind of feeling regarding Sh- no.<p>

No, he wouldn't come in.

He straightened when he heard his P.A.'s voice and the low baritone of his father's one answer in a harsh way. Mycroft smiled a little and allowed himself to relax, his head resting on the seatback as his eyes wandered on his Manor's ground.

The dull pain of the hunger was almost making him smile, as it was, and he could almost hear Sherlock's berating him about food control and anorexia. Oh, the little sunshine had searched everything and everywhere about this affliction.

Sherlock had never been more invest in something else than a case except for this one time. He had read, and asked and met people who could help him understand why his brother would sometimes stop eating.

Control. That's what he came up with after having thought about all the information he had gathered from his research. It was all about control. Mycroft wasn't much in control of his life at the time (and Sherlock had been 11 or 12 when he had begun researching) so he had to find control over something else.

It had been the food.

Sometimes he ate too much, sometimes not at all. And every time Sherlock would meet him - it being outside, inside, in public, in private, in bed – no, don't think, no – each time they would see each other, Sherlock would ask Mycroft how his diet was going and Sherlock would read his face and see – see if it was a bad cycle, or an easy one, if it was about to begin, or finally over.

Sherlock would know.

Sherlock knew him.

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his fingers on his eyelids until he could see bright sparkles behind them.

He wasn't sure he was ever going to get better – he wasn't sure he wanted to.

And then, a new voice came from the hall and he tensed. No, certainly it couldn't be –

"Ah, Greg Lestrade and John Watson." Said his father and Mycroft whimpered – he did, he did and he couldn't – he – no. He couldn't face John Watson.

He couldn't face him and act as if everything was alright and as if – as if he hadn't thought his brother unfaithful because of the army doctor and had fought with him about it and – and let him die.

He didn't know how long he tried to regain his breath, to not faint again, but when he did, the door to his rooms was opening and he could hear four pair of foots crossing his living-room.

They paused a second in front of his bedroom door before Isabel – she was Isabel at home- rattled her knuckles against the door's wood and entered.

Mycroft refused to look up, his eyes remaining on the biggest tree of the grounds. He wouldn't face them. Ever.

"Mycroft," Isabel said, and as they were at home, she could certainly use his first name. She had always done so, since the first time they met her until now –and she had always been their little Isabel running everywhere after them and liking them no matter what.

"Isabel, lovely to see you." He said. He knew why she was here, he knew what she wanted to do – try to do – but he didn't intend to help.

In a way, he just wanted to die already and be done with it – he thought and the pain in his chest worsened a little.

There was a silence and then someone fell in front of him, on their knees, and a pale, calloused hand, reached both of his, which he was clenching tightly.

"Look at me, Mycroft." He heard and it was John Watson's voice and he couldn't – He shook his head and tried to take his hands away. And god, what must the soldier think, seeing him in this state and –

"I am so sorry for your loss, Mycroft." John said again, and the soldier's voice was broken now and Mycroft was certain he was crying as well, the sobs from earlier finally free to shake his body.

"I – "He tried to say something, but his voice broke and failed him and he just kept weeping, and he hated himself because it was so very common and he was ashamed but god, how he wanted to scream his brother's name now and ask him to come back, to not be dead and –

"Lord, I know Mycroft. I know. Hush, please. You're going to faint again if you don't breath. Shh. Look at me – in and out." The doctor said and he breathed in and out slowly. Mycroft stared at him and tried to control – control control – himself enough to match his breathing with John's.

"That's it, that's good Mycroft, everything's fine, it's alright." Nothing was fine, nothing was alright – Sherlock was dead. And they both knew it.

He clenched John's hand with both of his and closed his eyes.

"I don't think you can help me." He said in a hoarse voice. Because he really doubted he wanted to survive this time.

"Well, we've got a month to do so, because if you're not better by then, if you haven't called your father before the end of this month, he is taking custody and intend to send you in a psychiatric clinic." Isabel said. And John hadn't been sure until now that Mycroft could ever look paler. He could, he was sickly white now.

"We won't let it happen, Mycroft, believe me. Even if you're not better by then, we are not going to let anything happen to you."

And Mycroft wanted to say 'too bad' but he shared a glance with Lestrade and the man seemed shocked beyond words and very much broken. So Mycroft held his tongue.

"Alright, I – I will do my best." He said. And he was really going to try and hold his promise, because his brother would want him to. Because Sherlock would say, 'how's the diet?' and Mycroft didn't want to feel ashamed and tell him that he had relapse again.

Well, not that Sherlock would ever ask him anything again – but he would try anyway.

-o-

The first month passed in a blur for Myroft. He wasn't talking very much and was often lost in his head, staring at a vacant point and trying to make his brother appear out of thin air – or as a ghost.

Whenever it was time to eat, John or Greg or both of them would be there – the other one reading in the same room. He sometimes preferred to just deal with one of them – and they would ask him politely to eat at least half the plate.

They were always eating at the same time and it was always one of them who had cooked, which was a way to coerce Mycroft into eating because he couldn't be disrespectful and ignore the effort.

Sometimes they would eat in the kitchen, sometimes, when it was a bad day, they would eat in Mycroft's rooms.

They slept in his living-room which was in fact more of a library just outside his bedroom than a living-room. His butler had installed two beds there, and John and Greg were always present for him.

Sometimes, it was a bad day for all of them. It was rare, because Lestrade was usually very good at hiding his feelings, and John wouldn't make a sound when he was in pain, except some broken gasp sometimes in the silence of the rooms.

But there were times, rarely, when they would all feel Sherlock's absence at the same time and it would be like a chill going through their bones and god, they were all grown-ups and they should be able to accept it, deal with it – how the hell did other people do? It was like they were the last humans on earth – but they still would all end up in Mycroft's bed, trying to breath, trying to forget Sherlock had ever existed.

Or they would try talking about every annoying thing he had ever done and end up crying all over Mycroft's pillows but damn, was it good.

They were broken men.

It was one of the mornings following a bad day that Mycroft called his father. And his voice was steady, hard and clear.

He was still 25 pounds underweight.

-o-

The second month, they got better. They talked more. And Lestrade and Mycroft got closer because they both shared the same sort of guilt. They had both cared deeply about Sherlock and had both led to his death in a way or another.

They all shared Mycroft's bed.

It was not in a sexual way or anything, but they really barely left Mycroft's rooms and the bed was so large they could still welcome a family of four.

And it was a way to prevent John from waking up in the middle of the night, yelling after Sherlock and asking him not to jump.

The day following that nightmare, none of them had eaten anything.

The night following that nightmare, they had agreed all to sleep in the same bed, an anchor to the real world.

And then, step after step, relapse after relapse, slowly, they got better.

-o-

Three years later, they all stood in front of Sherlock's grave. Greg and John were holding hands and John's arm was bound securely around one of Mycroft's. The man was still slightly underweight, but it was normal, now.

They all knew there were times in the year when he couldn't do it. This time of year, for example, was one of the worst. It was Sherlock's death anniversary and they had hesitated a long time before coming here.

It was the first time they came since John and Greg had been asked by Isabel to help Mycroft and as hard as it was, they were all aware of the big step they had just done.

They all lived together now, a big flat near Embankment station, with a nice view on the Thames.

They all had separate rooms at first, but now Greg and John shared one, the second one was for Mycroft and the third one belong to a little addition brought into their life two years ago.

"So? Da?." The little blond boy asked as he deposited some flowers in front of the grave stone.

Greg smiled softly and approached his son, kneeling down on the grave. The little boy then turned around and jumped into his daddy's arms.

"Thank you, Sherringford." Mycroft said, and the little two years old held his arms toward his uncle.

It had been a gift to have this little wonder come into their lives. Harry had found herself pregnant after sleeping with a men when she was too drunk to tell gender apart.  
>When she had found out, she had called John and asked him about abortion.<p>

The man had convinced her to keep the baby, and they all had helped her to stop drinking for the remaining 7 months of pregnancy.

It had been a blessing, to be able to focus on someone else's pain entirely, and then to be rewarded by the life of this little cherub.

Sherringford laid his head on Mycroft's shoulder and stared at his fathers with a comforting smile.

They still slept together sometimes, when the night was too hard on Mycroft, or when the only way for John to not have a nightmare was to recreate the cocoon they had found themselves into at the beginning of Mycroft's convalescence.

They stayed silent for a while and Sherringford fell asleep on Mycroft's shoulder, the man smiling softly at his godson.

Then, their mobile phones all rang at the same time. John was the quickest to react and he read the text, frowning.

"Isabel wants us to come to the Manor right now." He said.

Greg scowled and shared a concerned glance with Mycroft. "If it's your fucking father again, I'll rip him a new one." He said. And Mycroft smiled while John nodded. He would certainly help.

They turned their back to the grave, and it was harder than it looked, and made their way slowly to the car. Mycroft's Manor was 10 minutes away.

When they arrived, half the MI5 and most of the MI6 seemed to be surrounding the estate. Greg slowed down, frowning again, and swore under his breath.

"Any idea what Isabel has gotten herself int-" Then the car abruptly stopped and John's hand shot up quickly to prevent Sherringford to be hurt by the sudden stop.

"Greg!" Mycroft and John exclaimed at the same time, their eyes running over Sherringford's waking form. The boy whimpered and opened his eyes, before smiling at his father and Uncle.

"Mycroft." Came the whispered – harsh, row, broken – voice of Lestrade, and Mycroft and John refocused their attention to him.

Greg was staring at the Manor, his hands clenching the steering wheel and tears were running on his cheeks.

"Greg, what – " John began, standing awkwardly and reaching for Greg. But then, Mycroft's soft cry interrupted him and he, too, reported his attention to the Manor.

And there – there was –

-No.

No. No. No.

"Mmh. No." John's sobs betrayed his body before he could even think about it.

"Da."

"John, John. What is – what the – "

But Lestrade couldn't come up with the right question because Sherlock was there.

Sherlock was there.

Sherlock, alive, was there in front of the Manor's doors, talking softly to Isabel, and watching with exhaustion as three MI5 agent walked past them carrying a stretcher, with an obviously dead body on it.

Mycroft slowly opened the door, and then he was walking, hesitant, his right hand clenching his Umbrella with all his force. John made a quick work in freeing his son and coming out of the car.

He came to Greg and opened the door quickly, forcing his partner to stand as well.  
>And then, they were all clenching at each other and Sherlock was still alive, not 2000 foot away.<p>

"He is – Am I dreaming? I am, right?" Greg asked, his hand clenched in a fist on Mycroft's sleeve.

"No. He lied." Mycroft said, his voice strangely calm but hoarse.

"He had to lie, he had to hide and hunt Moriarty's man down and couldn't tell us he was alive, because we were being watched and threatened. The body, it's Sevastian. He must be the last one. He lied."

And Isabel had turn her head, finally, and seen them, and she was crying as well. She muttered something to Sherlock and the man – their exhausted, thin, sick, piece of god – raised his head and looked at them.

They didn't move – couldn't move. And John wanted to throw up and yell and cry and – Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock – but Sherlock made quick steps, shattered, broken, uncertain, towards them and he seemed so far away but then he was there and Greg let himself fall on the floor and Mycroft stepped forward and held his arms and Sherlock whispered "Can I kiss you? May I kiss you, My?" in a strangled sob and Mycroft nodded and they kissed and Greg was watching smiling, sobbing while John had his head hidden in his son's neck, afraid to look up and wake and –

-And then, Sherlock's arms were around him and Mycroft was helping Greg stand and they all shared tears, and sobs and broken words.

And then they lived.

Together, a little bit broken, a little bit afraid, a lot more happier, and far more peacefully.

They lived.

FIN

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><p>^_^ Hope you enjoyed!<p> 


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